


Old Friends

by katedf



Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-17 19:47:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1400278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katedf/pseuds/katedf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard meets an old flame after many years. Will he get burned again?<br/>(Yes, I meant it when I ticked “no warnings apply”)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Surprise!

**Author's Note:**

> Episode 3.1 has made it across the pond, and I felt the episode gave Richard short shrift (literally!). That bothered me, so I’ve written my own version. Our episodes have been trimmed by 7-8 minutes, I assume to allow for commercials, although the show is currently on commercial-free public TV. So if some of my details don’t match the originals, it’s probably because of the missing bits. One very important detail is intentionally different!

“It’s just going to be a bunch of tourist tat, Angela,” Sasha complained. 

“But we should see some of the island. You know, more than just the villa. And there are restaurants in Honoré. We could have lunch after we look at the market.”

“You always were over-organized,” sighed Roger. “And impossible to deter once you were on a mission. So I suppose we may as well go.”

So the four old friends from university days drove down from their mountainside villa to the little town of Honoré, on the island of Saint Marie. 

The spirit of the market was infectious. Roger and James began a competition to see who could point out the brightest shirt, and then dare the other to buy it. Angela bought a brightly colored scarf and a necklace. Sasha glanced at the content of a few stalls, but none of it particularly interested her. She hadn’t been keen on the whole reunion, really, but the others wanted to go, so she didn’t fight it. Angela was the one who set up the reunion. As often happens, classmates drifted apart, but Angela had made an effort to stay in touch with several of them. Sasha watched Angela skip from stall to stall. Poor girl must not get out much, if a simple market got her so excited.

Then they all came to a halt. There, in front of them, walking down a flight of steps was another classmate. Dressed in a dark suit and carrying a briefcase, Richard Poole looked as if he’d been plucked out of London and plopped down on this tropical island without even realizing it. 

“Richard!” Angela squealed. “Oh, my goodness! How wonderful to see you!”

-o-o-o-o-

“And that’s why I’m late getting back from lunch,” Richard explained to Camille.

“You don’t seem terribly excited about it,” she replied.

“It was… odd. Oh, you know. People change, memories get distorted, things don’t turn out the way you expect. Anyway,” Richard’s tone became brisk, “We have work to do, so enough about my classmates.”

-o-o-o-o-

“Ow!” Richard rubbed his cheek where the elastic band had hit him. “What is wrong with you, Camille? That is utterly childish.”

“You weren’t listening. You’ve been staring off into space for the past hour. I asked you THREE TIMES if you wanted to go with me to interview the witness.”

“Witness?”

“To the robbery? The one you said this morning we should speak to again this afternoon?”

“Oh, um, right. I just—in a few minutes, if you would just, um, wait.” Richard took his mobile out to the porch. 

Camille rolled her eyes. He’d been distracted ever since lunch, but he wouldn’t talk about it beyond the fact that some of his classmates from university were having a reunion on Saint Marie. He’d joined them for lunch and was supposed to spend time with them the next day. Anyone else would be bubbling over with memories and stories. Not Richard. She slammed her pen down on her desk and went to eavesdrop. 

“Yes, Mum, photos would be brilliant. Anything from that year. No, you don’t need to send my dissertation, but if you can find hers… Right… Yes, it was an unusual choice, but mine doesn’t matter. Oh, God, no. Don’t send that! … No. … Just bin it. … Yes, in the bin. I don’t need to read it— And please, Mum, don’t you go reading it.” Richard sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “Okay, just add anything you think is relevant. Right… yeah, you too. Must go now, Mum. Witness to interview… uh-huh… right…bye!”

Camille scurried to her desk, and made a great show of looking for a pen on the floor. 

“Camille?”

She looked up, “Yes?”

“What are you doing?”

She straightened and held up a pen, “Dropped this. Are we going now?”

“Yes. Right. Robbery witness.”

-o-o-o-o-

On the way to interview the witness, Camille was reminded of one of the nuns from her school days. If something didn’t go well, or a student was unhappy, Sister Philomène would say that you should offer up your suffering as a sacrifice against your time in Purgatory. It was nearly killing her not to ask Richard about his classmates. Suffering like this should give Camille a straight line to Heaven when her time came. 

“The timeline is important. I hope now she’s calmer she will be able to tell us more.” Richard wasn’t saying anything new. Camille knew he was reviewing the case more to fill the time and stop her asking questions than to add anything to their understanding of the robbery.

“We should check that her watch is set to the correct time,” Camille commented.

Richard was grateful that Camille was focusing on the crime and not his personal life. She usually poked and pried to get him to talk about himself. He tried to relax and concentrate on the task at hand.

-o-o-o-o-

“Ah, well, it was worth a try, I suppose,” Richard sighed as he got into the Defender.

“If we catch the guy, she’s going to be useless as a witness. One minute he’s over six feet tall, then he’s short. The shirt was blue, no green, no maybe it was blue after all.”

Richard shrugged, “You know how eyewitness accounts can vary. Haven’t you ever had the training exercise where someone bursts into the room, kills someone—well, pretends to kill someone—and then bolts out. There’s always variation in the witness statements.”

“Yes, but that’s from one person to another. Most people stick to their story. Unless…” Camille stomped on the brakes.

“Christ, Camille, are you trying to kill me?”

“No! It just struck me.” She turned to face Richard. “What if she’s dithering on purpose? What if she _does_ know who it is but is trying to distract us?”

“So you think she’s in on it?”

“Could be.”

“Good thinking, Camille. Let’s step up those background checks on the employees.” Richard looked out the window as Camille resumed driving. Damn, he should have thought of that. Where was his brain today? Stupid question, it was time-warping back to Cambridge. 

“What happened at lunch today?” Camille finally broke the silence.

“Nothing.”

“You’ve been distracted all afternoon. Talking about it might help.”

“Nothing happened, Camille.”

“Then tell me about your classmates.”

“It’s been years, so they felt like strangers. Especially, um, well, let’s see. We were friends, took a lot of the same classes, studied together, drank together. At the time, it seemed like friendships would go on after. But, of course they don’t. You know how it is, people go off on different paths. Angela became a lawyer. She’s done quite well. Never married. Sasha started a software company. So many startups don’t succeed, but she was in the right place at the right time. Her software took off like a shot and she make a packet of money.” 

Richard was staring out the side window again, so Camille prompted him.

“And did she ever marry?”

“Yes. She, uh, married James.”

“One of the group?”

“Yes. I was, um, quite surprised. It seemed to come out of the blue. Then there was the car crash. I knew about it, but didn’t realize how bad it was. I mean, I knew about her sister, but I didn’t expect that she’d need surgery… Funny, Angela thought she’d had the surgery here. Remember the clinic? Dr. Tipping? But she didn’t. It was somewhere on St. Lucia.”

“What happened to her sister?”

“Helen died in the crash. Sasha was so badly hurt that she needed reconstructive surgery. Quite a good job. Better than Tipping would have done. I suppose such a horrific experience changes your outlook on life, because Sasha sold the company and she and James just live off their money.”

“Must be nice. Anyone else there?”

“Yeah, um, the fourth one is Roger Sadler. That was a bit awkward. He was sent down for cheating, never graduated.”

“Oh, and did—”

“Ah, here were are, back at the station. Let’s get cracking on those background checks.”

And Camille knew she wouldn’t get any more information out of Richard that afternoon.

-o-o-o-o-

Richard sat on his veranda, beer in hand, thinking about his classmates, especially Sasha. Of all of them, she had changed the most. He remembered how he’d felt about Sasha and how blindsided he’d been when she announced that she was marrying James. Of course, James had it all—charm, good looks, all the right connections. Richard doubted he could have helped her launch her software nearly so well. But he thought they’d had something, that they could have been more than friends. Ah well, that was not the last time in his life he’d misread a woman. But possibly the worst.

He gave up trying to figure out what was bothering him about Sasha—other than the obvious sense of disappointment. Whatever it was, it was just out of reach. He gave up thinking and went to bed. 

That night, he dreamed he was back at Cambridge, attending a winter formal. 

_He was dancing with Sasha. Part of his brain knew they hadn’t really danced this close, but hell, it was his dream and he would dream it his way. This was how he had expected his life to turn out. Then suddenly the music became more up-tempo, and Sasha disappeared._

_“Dance with me, Richard,” an insistent voice said. Helen grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the dance floor._

_“No, I um, I was…” he looked around for Sasha, but couldn’t see her. Then he saw someone else and Helen disappeared. And once again he was dancing to a slow song. He had never enjoyed dancing so much. It was instinctive and easy and he didn’t have to think about a thing. Part of his brain reminded him that this wasn’t possible, but another part of his brain told it to shut up and let him enjoy the moment._


	2. Taking the Afternoon Off

Richard read the case file for the third time. There were only two witnesses to the smash-and-grab robbery, the woman with the shaky story and an elderly man whose vision made him an unreliable witness. Fidel and Dwayne had gone back to the alley to search again for anything the thief might have dropped, but that was a long shot at best.

Fortunately, the store owner had kept excellent records, so their best hope was that one of the stolen cameras would turn up at a pawn shop. They’d sent out a list of serial numbers. There really wasn’t much more they could do.

“Do you want to read my report for the insurance claim?” Camille asked.

“Hmm?”

“The insurance report for the store owner?”

“Oh, right. Yes. Insurance," Richard nodded. "Will you get that report to him soon?”

“I’ve finished it. Do you want to read it before I print it out and take it to him?”

“No, no. I’m sure it’s fine. In fact, I’ll walk it down to him. I have an errand to run in the market this morning.”

“Are you all right? You’re distracted, and I could swear you were humming.”

“Oh, I have a song stuck in my head. Angela was humming it yesterday at lunch and I can’t get rid of it.”

“They say when you get a song stuck like that, you should sing it out loud to make it go away.”

“I tried that last night, didn’t work.”

“Richard! You sang? Out loud? I know you have perfect pitch, but you’ve only ever used it for listening, not singing.” Camille was wide-eyed with surprise and excitement.

Knowing she was going to ask him to sing, he cut her off, “No. Not going to sing it for you. I don’t remember all of it. I’m sure it’s on the Internet somewhere, so look it up if you’re curious. It’s Sondheim’s ‘Old Friends.’ It’s from a play we all saw together. Ironically, it’s the story of a group of friends over time. But it’s told backwards. It was strange and confusing and didn’t run very long. The critics weren’t pleased with it, but Sasha loved the music. She was always humming show tunes. Odd that she didn’t pick up on what Angela was humming.”

“And did you like the show?”

“It was confusing, and a bit bleak at points. Sondheim is like that. On the train back to Cambridge, we were discussing the play. Sasha made up an impromptu list of attributes of composers. Sondheim is angst, Kander and Ebb are sexy, I forget the others. She made a list for playwrights, too. Mamet is angry and wordy; Pinter is about cruelty; in Chekov everyone shouts; Tennessee Williams characters are sloppy drunks; Noel Coward characters get drunk in a classy way, trying to be elegant while falling over furniture.”

“It sounds like she really loved the theatre. Does she still?”

“I don’t know about now. I suppose she still does. At university it was her secret dream to take the West End by storm. She got a few small parts in plays at Cambridge. I used to run lines with her.”

“Were you in any plays?”

“God, no. We all sat in the audience and cheered her on. I always said when she starred in ‘Private Lives’ in the West End, I would send her three dozen roses on opening night.”

“But she never did.”

“No. Well, you know how it is, we all grow up. I doubt she has any complaints. She’s done well. She and James are quite wealthy. I’m sure she can get the best seats to all the best plays, not up in the gods the way we were when we were students.”

“And what was your secret dream when you were at university?”

“Oh,” Richard shrugged, “I don’t remember. Not sure I had one, actually. Gosh, look at the time. I need to get that insurance report down to the store. I’ll see how Dwayne and Fidel are doing with their search while I’m down there.”

“Don’t take too long. Remember, you’ve got a party to go to today.”

“Right. Well, of course, I will be on call. So if anything happens… You know, another robbery… whatever, you can call me.”

Camille picked up the insurance report, slipped it into an envelope and handed it to Richard, “Here you are.”

“Thanks, Camille. I’ll, get a taxi from down by the shops. See you all later.” 

-o-o-o-o-

At the villa, Angela was busy in the kitchen.

“Stop fussing, Angela. It’s only a salad, not the Mona Lisa!” Sasha had been grumpy all morning, and Angela’s perkiness was at an all-time high.

“Just wanted to get lunch organized so we can relax and have a lovely afternoon. Do you think it’s time to start the grill?”

“Probably,” said Roger. “It takes a while for the coals to get hot. I’ll do it.”

“James, Darling, why don’t you make us something to drink.” said Sasha. Angela ceded the kitchen area to James, who pressed the ice bucket against the door of the fridge.

“What the hell?” he said. “Bloody ice dispenser isn’t working.”

“Check inside,” said Angela. 

“What?”

“Oh, honestly!” she huffed, and opened the door. “There’s no fresh ice. I suppose we’ve been outdrinking its output.”

“Isn’t there any ice?” Sasha asked crossly.

“Yes, but it’s a bloody glacier,” James grumbled.

The ever-capable Angela pulled out the ice bin and turned it upside-down in the sink. THUNK! The glacier fell out. She replaced the bin, made certain that the ice maker hadn’t accidentally been switched off, and closed the refrigerator door.

“I’m afraid that’s what we’ve got for ice,” she said. “Use a knife or something to hack off some bits until we’ve got proper ice cubes. I’ll call Richard and ask him to pick up a bag of ice—”

“Hello?” came a voice from the front of the house. “The door was open.”

“Richard!” Angela smiled.

“Hello, Richard,” said James, as he stabbed at the block of ice. “We’re just making drinks. What can I get for you?”

“Actually, I’d like a cup of tea. Bit early in the day for me.” Seeing James roll his eyes, Richard added, “I’m technically on call, so, you know, best not to have a cocktail.”

“Must be tough to be a working stiff,” James laughed.

 _Must be tough to be living off your wife’s money,_ thought Richard, but he merely smiled and excused himself, heading for the veranda, where Sasha stood in the sun.

He said hello and handed Sasha a package. “I saw it at a market stall. I’m sure you’ve got a copy, but, well, you know, memories and all that.”

Sasha unwrapped the book and glanced at it as if she’d never seen it before. She set it on a table, and just said, “Thanks.”

“I think it’s going now,” said Roger, as he held his hand above the coals. “Oh, hello Richard.”

The awkward silence was broken by Angela. “Isn’t the view fantastic? How lucky you are to live on this island, Richard.”

“I don’t live like this,” Richard gestured at the villa. “They’ve put me up in a little shack on a beach.”

“Ooh, on a beach, how lovely!” 

Had Angela always been so chipper, Richard wondered. She was practically jumping up and down like a schoolgirl. He shook his head and said, “Not so lovely. Sand everywhere, a tree grows through my front room—no, I’m not joking about that. And there’s a lizard who seems to believe it’s his house, not mine.”

“Euww!” said Sasha, looking around to see if some offending wildlife might be waiting to invade her space. “Let’s go inside and see if James has got those drinks ready.”

Sasha sidled up to her husband and whispered in his ear. Richard looked away. Ridiculous to still be bothered by the idea of her with another man. He’d never had a chance, had he?

Angela looked at Richard and followed his line of sight. She’d never felt able to compete with Sasha. Academically, yes, she often outscored Sasha. But when it came to Richard, Angela never had a chance as long as Sasha was around.

“I know!” Sasha said suddenly, “Let’s play charades!”

“Oh, I’d rather not, if you don’t mind,” said Richard. “I’ve got a bit of a headache. I’ll just sip my tea outside. Um, enjoy your game.”

He walked onto the veranda, picked up the book, and sat down in a sun lounger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Sondheim song “Old Friends” is from “Merrily We Roll Along.” The song is about how special old friends are. I didn’t have it in mind when I named this story, but it popped into my head last night, so I worked it into this chapter. (It was either that or sing it out loud!)


	3. Call 999

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fear not! This chapter begins with a scene from 3.1, but then it goes AU.  
> I changed the story tag from "other" to "multi" because the "other" icon looked too scary.

“Maybe we should rescue him,” said Dwayne. “He’s been gone several hours, and you know how he hates to party.”

“Oh, let him be,” said Camille.

“He did seem uncomfortable about it,” said Fidel. “Did he talk about it at all yesterday when you went out, Camille?

“Not much. He tried to stick to the case, but I got a little out of him. They were friends. Three of the four did well. The fourth, I don’t know. Richard said he didn’t graduate, but I don’t know any more than that. I got the feeling there was something unfinished, something bothering him. So let him sort it out.”

“I still think he’d like to be rescued,” said Dwayne. 

-o-o-o-o-

Richard sat in the sun lounger, turning the book over in his hands. Yesterday he’d felt hurt that Sasha had been so cool toward him and shocked that James had warned him off so angrily. Could James really be jealous? After all those years of marriage to Sasha, could he believe she’d throw him over and beg to stay on Saint Marie with Richard? It made no sense, especially considering how little Sasha had to say to him yesterday. Even Roger seemed pleased to see Richard, and he had more reason to be unhappy about the meeting. At least Angela was truly glad to see him. 

So what to do now? He wished he had more time to confirm his suspicions, to know if the others were in on it, too. He’d asked Mum to send him those old photos and things, but he didn’t need them now, not to prove anything to himself. He hated it, but he was sure. He hadn’t had a moral dilemma like this since that time at university. But rules were rules and it had been the right thing to do.

Richard had always believed in following the rules. A stickler for being by-the-book. His colleagues in Croyden used to roll their eyes at his devotion to following the rules. If they could see him now! Rule bending was a way of life on Saint Marie. Richard thought about how he let Benjamin Sammy give a false motive for murder in order to save the rain forest. And he let Carlton Banks keep the stolen medicine for his little clinic. But those were exceptions made for the greater good, and Richard had surprisingly little trouble making those decisions. 

This time, there was no greater good. Truth mattered to Richard, and he had to do the right thing. And even if the truth hadn’t motivated him, he wanted to do this to honor a memory. So here he sat, dreading the truth. The “suspects” were all gathered at the villa. Now, how to go about this?

-o-o-o-o-

“Honoré police station, Sergeant Best,” Fidel picked up the phone. “Yes, ma’am, we will. Give me your address. Right. We will call for an ambulance. Is the intruder still around? Okay, don’t touch anything, we’ll be there as soon as we can.”

“What is it?”

“Up in one of the villas, an intruder attacked someone.” Fidel speed-dialed the hospital and gave them the information.

“Let’s go!” They ran down the stairs. Camille and Fidel took the Defender, Dwayne took his bike. Camille tried twice to call Richard, but he didn’t answer. They heard the wail of a siren behind them as they climbed the mountain road.

They were met at the door by a tall dark-haired man. Camille identified herself and her team and walked into the house.

Following behind the team, the tall man said, “Detective, I think I should warn—”

“RICHARD!” Camille screamed as she ran toward the sun lounger. A blonde woman knelt by the lounger, holding what appeared to be a towel against Richard’s chest. The sight of the spreading red stain made Camille almost collapse. She blessed Dwayne, whose strong arms held her up.

“Is he breathing?” Dwayne asked the woman. “Don’t press so hard you keep him from breathing.”

“But he’s bleeding!” cried the blonde as Dwayne felt Richard’s neck for a pulse.

“Coming through!” Fidel shouted as he led the ambulance crew onto the veranda.

“He’s breathing, but not well, and his pulse is weak,” Dwayne said softly to one of the EMTs.

“Right, we’ll take it from here. Miss,” the EMT spoke to the blonde. “We’ll take care of him.”

Fidel gently helped the blonde to her feet, while Dwayne held onto Camille. Dwayne led Camille to another sunlounger, and pushed her onto it, so she was sitting facing away from the scene. 

“Head, down, breathe.”

“But we need—”

“Shh,” Dwayne pressed gently on her back. “Fidel and I know what to do. You sit for a minute.”

Fidel was already taking names. The brunette pointed to the railing and yelped, “Ow! My arm! I must have hurt it when I fell.”

“Here, Darling, hold it against you,” said her husband. To Fidel he said, “Can one of the EMTs see to my wife’s arm?”

“Richard needs their attention. I’ll get a scarf for a sling,” said the blonde as she darted into the house. She came out with the bright scarf she’d bought the day before. The brunette winced, more at the colors than at Dwayne’s touch as he tied an impromptu sling.

Camille stood and walked toward the EMTs clustered around Richard. 

“How is he?”

“Puncture wound in the chest, collapsed lung, significant bleeding. We’re almost ready to move him now.”

“Does he need blood?”

“Yes, we’ve got him on saline to keep the fluids up, but the hospital will give him blood.”

“I’ll donate!” Camille said quickly.

“Do you know your type?”

“I’m A positive.” Camille pulled Richard’s mobile and ID from his jacket. She looked at the personal information on his warrant card. “He’s O positive.”

“You can’t donate to him, but the blood bank is always grateful for any donations.”

“Can I go with you?”

“You can’t do anything to help. We’ll be busy in the back so you’d have to ride up front. Best if you come to the hospital later.”

“All right. Bag his hands. There could be something on him—DNA under his nails, maybe some sunscreen or something from the intruder’s skin. Casualty should have rape kits. They can use those to collect trace. Tell them it has to be done. They should know how to collect the evidence. If not, tell them to call the ME’s office for help. Here’s my contact info. I want updates, lots of them.” Camille handed a card to the EMT and walked over to the group in the villa.

Fidel introduced everyone to Camille.

“How is he?” Angela gasped.

“Not good, but they’re doing their best. If anyone is O positive, that’s Richard’s type. But before you go to the blood bank, we need to assess the situation. Please make yourselves comfortable in here while we confer.”

Outside on the veranda, Dwayne asked, “So how is he, Camille? Do you know any more than you said?”

“Puncture wound to the chest, collapsed lung, lots of bleeding.” She took a deep breath and blinked back tears. “What’s their story?”

“Intruder. Stabbed the Chief, Mrs. Moore tried to pull him off, and he pushed her. She fell, which is how she hurt her arm—we need to get her to the hospital for that. The others were inside and heard her scream. Her husband ran out first, saw the intruder go over the side of the veranda.” 

They walked to where Fidel pointed.

“What was he, Spider Man?” said Dwayne.

“Maybe this isn’t the spot. You know how people can be confused.”

“I don’t know,” said Camille. “I can’t see any damage to the vegetation. And it’s a long drop. Where did Mrs. Moore fall?”

“Here,” Fidel pointed to a spot between the sun lounger and the railing. He continued to point as he explained what happened. “She says she tried to pull the intruder off the Chief, the guy pushed her, she fell, he went over the side.”

“Okay, there’s a blood trail, so I guess the intruder pulled the weapon out of Richard’s—” Camille stifled a sob.

“Camille, maybe you shouldn’t be out here,” said Dwayne gently.

“No. We need to do this. We need to focus. The blood trail goes to here, there’s some extra blood and then no more blood. Odd. Okay, photos, prints, the usual. I should—” Camille pulled out her mobile, looked at the caller ID and answered, “Sir!”

“Commissioner?” whispered Fidel, and Camille nodded.

When she ended the call she said, “Reinforcements are coming from Government House. The Commissioner’s office is arranging alternate lodging for the witnesses. So, Dwayne, take them one at a time over to the table and get a detailed statement of who did what. Fidel, supervise the scene work. A car will take Mrs. Moore to Casualty for her arm, and I’ll get her statement on the way. We don’t have pictures of the, um … Richard… ”

“Hey,” Dwayne said softly. “Are you sure you can do this?”

Camille took a deep breath and nodded. “The other woman, Miss, um?”

“Birkett.”

“Right. She was all over him, trying to control the bleeding. So she may have moved him. See if she remembers anything about his position. And… oh, here comes our help. I know you two will handle everything. Do him proud, okay?”

“You bet, Camille.”

“We will.”

Dwayne started the interviews with James Moore while Camille accompanied Sasha Moore to the hospital.

“I already told the officer at the villa,” she said crossly.

“I know, but I want to hear the details for myself. It’s what Richard would do. You were friends, right?”

“Yes. Study buddies, best mates.”

“And your husband was in the group, too?”

“Yes, we all were friends. But we’re not from around here, so it can’t have to do with us. The intruder must have been after Richard.”

“We will look into all possibilities.” Camille paused and looked at the woman. Okay, she was in some pain from her injury, but she didn’t seem terribly concerned about a man who had once been a good friend. 

“So where was everyone when the intruder attacked Richard?”

“We were inside. James and Roger were razzing Angela about making a hash of ‘Life of Pi.’ We’d been playing charades, you see. Richard didn’t care to play, said he had a headache. He’d taken his cup of tea out onto the veranda. James was refreshing our drinks, and I thought I’d take a snack out to Richard. A bowl of crisps. I had just set them down when this man appeared from nowhere and tried to stab Richard. I pulled at the man, and he pushed me off. That’s when I fell. The intruder jumped over the railing.”

“Did he say anything? Yell anything?”

“The intruder? No.”

“And what did he look like?”

“Um tall, black, quite dark, actually.”

“Did you get a look at his face?”

“No, it was in shadow.”

“What was he wearing?”

Dark shorts and t-shirt. Dark navy or black.”

“Shoes?”

“Trainers. Scruffy white ones. No socks.”

“Jewelry? Watch?”

“I didn’t notice.” 

“Did you get a look at the weapon at any point?”

“God no,” Sasha shuddered. “I suppose he took it with him.”

“Ah. So the intruder attacked Richard, you pulled him off, he shoved you, you fell, he took off. Is that it?”

“Yes. Oh, and I guess I screamed at some point because James, my husband, ran out. He saw the intruder go over the railing. The others came out after James and didn’t see the intruder.”

“And then what happened?”

“Angela screamed, ran to Richard, called for someone to get a towel to stop the bleeding. I phoned the police. And then you arrived, and you know from there.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Moore. We will need you to sign a formal statement of the facts for our records. You’ve been quite helpful.” 

Camille handed Sasha over to a nurse, gave instructions for collecting trace evidence from Sasha’s hands, and went to the desk to ask about Richard’s condition.


	4. Examining Evidence

“I’m sorry, Miss, we can’t give out a patient’s information.”

Camille flashed her badge and said, “You can tell me.”

“I don’t know…”

“Let me rephrase that. You WILL tell me. I am his partner. Look, I even have his warrant card.” Camille held up Richard’s identification. Before the woman at the desk could answer, Camille felt strong hands on her shoulders. 

“Come with me, Camille,” said the Commissioner. He took her to a small private waiting room, the ones reserved for families who were about to receive bad news. Camille gasped and started to cry.

“Shh, Camille, no. He’s still alive. He’s in surgery. We won’t know anything for a while.”

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it? He didn’t die on the way here. He’s still alive. So the longer he’s alive, the more likely he is not to die, right?”

“That often is the case, Camille. Why don’t you put your feet up and rest. We can get you something to eat or drink.”

“I don’t want anything. I should go back to the scene.”

“I’m sure Fidel and Dwayne are handling it properly. The three witnesses have been moved to a hotel. Martha, from my office, is taking official statements there.”

“I’ve got information from Mrs. Moore, and I want to read the other statements against hers. Something doesn’t ring true and I don’t know what it is.”

The Commissioner smiled. Camille raised her eyebrows as if to say “what?”

“You sound like Inspector Poole.”

Camille’s eyes welled up with tears as she said, “Oh, sir, that’s the nicest thing you could say to me right now. I want to solve this for him. Whatever happens—no. So _when_ he wakes up and I tell him, he’ll say ‘good work,’ the way he always does.”

“And when he wakes up, you’ll have another witness to help you sort out what happened. If you don’t want to rest, I’ll take you back to Honoré.”

As they waited for the Commissioner’s driver to bring the car around, Camille called Dwayne.

_“Hey, Camille. How is he?”_

“In surgery. We won’t know much for a while.”

_“At least he’s still with us, hold onto that.”_

“I am, just as hard as I can. Where are you?”

_“At the scene. Our young sergeant is photographing every square centimeter of the veranda. The Government House boys have done exclusion prints and taken prints wherever they could. The railing’s kind of rough, so they didn’t get much there. I’ve just finished sketching the layout of the scene.”_

“Good. I’ve got the trace evidence from Richard’s hands, and they will collect what they can from Mrs. Moore. With luck, we might have the intruder’s DNA. Did you get their passports?”

_“Yes. And most of their clothing is still here, so they won’t go far. They took just enough for a few days. Martha—you know the Commissioner’s Martha?—she wanted to get them out of here quickly. Get them out from underfoot.”_

“Good work, team.”

_“That’s what the Chief would say. We’re about done here, so we’ll see you back at the station.”_

-o-o-o-o-

Fidel looked up when Dwayne’s phone rang. He heard Dwayne say “At least he’s still with us,” and said a quick prayer of thanks. 

“He’s in surgery,” Dwayne said. “And Camille says to say good work.”

“How is she?”

“Holding up, I guess. She’s on her way back to the station.”

“Sergeant?” came a voice from inside the house.

“Yes?” Fidel walked into the kitchen area and found one of the officers looking into the sink.

“Look at this, a block of ice in the sink. I didn’t think anyone bought ice blocks unless they were having a big party.”

“Maybe the ice maker’s broken?” Dwayne looked in the freezer. “It’s empty. I bet that’s one of those big chunks that form on the bottom, you know?”

“Probably,” said Fidel. “But look at the edges. They’ve been chipped. It’s melted smooth, but you can see some narrow grooves along one side.”

“They probably hacked at it with a knife.”

“But where’s the knife?”

“Oh, man,” said Dwayne, “That’s the kind of thing that drives the Chief crazy. Better take a picture of it, give him something to puzzle over when he wakes up.”

-o-o-o-o-

Camille hung up the phone and put her head down on her arms. Dwayne walked over to her and gently massaged her shoulders.

“I hate doing that!” she said between sniffles. “It’s never pleasant, but this… she cried so hard. I tried to be reassuring, but... I talked to his father. He sounded shocked, like he couldn’t even think what to say.”

“I know it was a difficult call to make. But I think it probably meant a lot to them that one of us called, rather than the hospital or the Commissioner.” 

“You should go home,” said Fidel. “Or go see your mother. There isn’t much we can do until we get the forensics reports.”

“No,” Camille sniffled and lifted her head. “I want to look over everything before we ship it out to Guadeloupe. He wouldn’t go home early, and neither will I. Have you printed out the photos you took?”

“There are too many to print them all. I’ll pull out what I think is significant, but you should look through them all on the screen to see what you want.”

“All right. Start printing your choices. Dwayne, what’s in the bags?”

Dwayne pointed to a collection of bags strewn across the work table.

“What’s that book?”

“It was under his chair.”

“It’s in French. Richard doesn’t read French. We should ask our witnesses about that. Was there anything in it? A note, a bookmark?”

“No.” Dwayne wrote a note to himself about the book.

“And the bowl? Is this the bowl Mrs. Moore took out to Richard?”

“It was on the table by his chair.”

“So did you dump out the crisps?

“No. It was like that.”

“She said she’d just taken it out to him. Why would she take out an almost empty bowl?”

“I don’t know. That’s another thing to ask about.” Dwayne added to his list.

“All right. Fidel, I want photos that show where the book was, what was on the table, the blood trail, and the usual people pictures.”

“And the Chief?”

“Yes, we always put our victim—” Camille stopped to blink away tears and sniffle. “Richard goes at the top of the board. And we should do a background check on him. See if anyone he put away has recently been released from prison, that sort of thing. Find out who would want him dead.”

Dwayne opened his mouth and shut it quickly. He’d been about to say “you,” remembering how much she disliked the Chief at first. But this was not the time for such a joke. Instead he shook his head and said, “I don’t think so, Camille.”

“What don’t you think?”

“I don’t think that’s worth doing. Come on, you looked at that place. An intruder could only have entered through the front door, which means he would have walked right past everyone. Unless he really is Spidey, he’s not gonna climb onto that veranda and then just hop off it.”

“Dwayne’s right,” Fidel nodded in agreement. “I looked over the side all the way around the veranda. There’s no easy way up or down.”

“And think about it,” Dwayne added. “The Chief lives all alone. He’d be easy enough to kill at his shack. Why do it with four witnesses nearby? I say it’s one of them.”

“Or some of them working together. Or maybe all of them,” said Fidel.

“No,” said Camille. “Not _all._ Angela seemed genuinely upset. Unless she’s crazy and off her meds, her grief was genuine. The others, I don’t know. Okay, step up the background checks on them. Maybe something will turn up to tell us why one of them tried to kill him.”

They worked for a few hours, looking at photos, talking about possibilities, waiting for replies to requests for information. Nobody wanted to give up, even though they felt there was nothing new to consider. They were staring at the white board when Catherine walked in.

“You need to eat,” she said, setting several containers of food on the table. 

“Oh, Maman!” Camille ran to her mother, and the two women embraced.

“I know, ma chère. You want to find out who did this. But you can’t think on an empty stomach.” Catherine gestured to the two men to start eating, and walked Camille out onto the porch. She patted her daughter’s back while Camille held her head in her hands and sobbed.

“Oh, Maman, what if he dies?”

“Shh, don’t think about that. Don’t be negative. We need positive energy. The prayer groups are working overtime for him, both churches. Father deVere says there are so many candles burning he expects the heat to turn on the sprinkler system.”

_sniff_ “Really?”

“Of course. Did you think you’re the only one who cares for him? He may be grumpy and unsociable, but people have come to see the good in him. We depend on tourists, and when crime is down, tourism is up. The Commissioner may take credit for it with the government. But the people, they know the truth. It’s because of your team. Richard, you, and the boys. People know he’s there for them when they need him, so now they want to be there for him.”

Camille sat up and sighed as she brushed away her tears. “I miss him. He drives me crazy sometimes, but I work better when he’s here. I think better. I feel better.”

“I know.” Catherine smiled and refrained from pointing out that it was all because Camille was in love with Richard. Maybe when he woke up—dear God, please let him wake up!—she’d finally realize it for herself.

Catherine returned to La Kaz and Camille joined the two officers in the station.

“Eat!” Dwayne commanded, pushing a plate of food toward Camille. She smiled when she saw her mother had made some of her favorite comfort food. They had just finished eating when Camille’s mobile rang. It was the Commissioner.

“Sir?”

_“Camille, how are you getting on?”_

“We’re sorting evidence, trying to reconcile statements. It seems that it must have been one of the four. They’re saying it was an intruder, but that doesn’t add up. Have you heard from the hospital? How is he?”

_“Critical but stable. He lost a lot of blood and his lung will take time to recover.”_

“Blood! I was going to donate!”

_“Don’t rush, Camille. The blood bank is overflowing with donors.”_

“Oh,” was all she could say. Prayers, blood donations. She wasn’t the only one who cared about Richard. The tears started again, and Dwayne handed her a box of tissues.

_“Are you still at the station?”_

“Yes.” But, she thought, he already knew that. Probably because her mother had called him.

_“Then you need to go home and rest. All of you. A good night’s sleep will give you a fresh look at the case tomorrow morning.”_

“Yes, sir.” Camille looked at the two men sitting at the table with her. The Commissioner was right. They were all exhausted, and wouldn’t make any more progress tonight. 

_“Then go home. Tomorrow morning, when you plan your next steps, remember that I can assign a few officers from Government House to help you.”_

“Thank you, sir.”

_“You’ve all worked hard today. I’m sure the Inspector will be proud of you. Goodnight.”_


	5. Breakfast With a Suspect

Camille looked at the clock and groaned. She turned over and burrowed into her pillows. But it was no use. She couldn’t fall asleep again. She dreaded looking into the mirror. She’d cried herself to sleep last night. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d done that. Oh, yes she could. She’d been thirteen and a boy she liked asked another girl to a dance, and she thought her life was over. She remembered telling her mother she didn’t think she could ever cry again because she’d used up all her tears. Catherine had told her that she’d make new ones when she needed them. As usual, Maman had been right.

But this was so much worse than an adolescent broken heart. Her partner, her friend was wounded, probably by someone who had once been his friend. That was too cruel to think about. And now he was in hospital, far from his family. _So we have to be his family,_ she thought and forced herself to get out of bed and start her day.

She drove to the hospital, wondering if there would be any new information on Richard's condition. Intensive Care was quiet. When she asked about Richard and showed her identification, the nurses exchanged a brief look. Apparently they’d been told that the detective was not to be denied access to her boss.

“He’s heavily medicated,” said one nurse. “He won’t be able to talk to you for at least 24 hours, maybe more.”

“And his prognosis? I mean what if his brain wasn’t getting enough oxygen? Will there be long-term damage?”

“You’d best speak to the doctors about that. I don’t think we will know until he wakes up.”

“I know it’s before visiting hours, but I’m working the investigation, so I can’t be here during those hours. Could I please see him? Just for a minute or two? I know it’s family only, but his family are in England. It would mean a lot to his mother if I could tell her I’d seen him.”

“Only a few minutes.”

“I understand. And please do enforce the family-only rule for anyone who isn’t police. The only ones who should visit are the three of us from Honoré station and the Commissioner. If anyone else asks to see him, please call me.” Camille handed the nurse her card. 

Camille entered the dimly lit room. Nothing was beeping, but lights traced patterns across the display screen. She watched, trying to make sense of what she saw. Based on the medical training one gets from watching doctor shows on TV, she could identify the cardiogram. The pattern looked regular, which she thought must be a good sign. The heights of the spikes meant nothing to her. The set of number readouts were probably to do with blood conditions. Pulse, obviously. Oxygenation, maybe? Whatever it all was, it had to be okay, or a team would be in here working on him. 

Richard looked a bit pale, but not as ashen as he’d looked yesterday afternoon. The transfusions must be helping. They were giving him supplemental oxygen, but that was not unusual. He wasn’t on a respirator, which she had greatly feared. If his heart was beating and he was breathing on his own, Camille had to believe Richard would recover.

Not wanting to dislodge any wires or tubes, Camille gently reached out and wrapped her hand around his fingers.

“Richard?” she whispered. “It’s me, Camille. We’re going to find out who did this to you. It would be easier if we had you working the case, but we’re working hard and we’ll get the job done. Your job is not to be a policeman. Your job now is to be a good patient and work hard at getting better. Please, Richard. Please come back to us.”

Camille’s breath hitched when she felt Richard squeeze her hand. She looked down, but his hand was still. Maybe she had imagined it. God knew she wanted a sign that he was going to be all right. She wanted that more than anything.

She released his hand and stood up. “I can’t stay too long. Mustn’t get you too tired. You rest and get better. I… We need you. Come back to us.”

Camille brushed away a tear and left the room. She stopped at the nurse’s station to thank them for bending the rules. As she walked out of the unit, she was surprised to see Angela Birkett.

“Miss Birkett?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Detective Sergeant Camille Bordey. You probably don't remember me. We met at the, um... villa.” Camille could not bring herself to use the expression _crime scene._

“Oh, right. Do you work with Richard?”

“Yes, we’re partners. I stopped in to check on his condition on my way to work. You’re out early.”

“I feel so awful about what happened. I couldn’t sleep. I was hoping they’d let me see him.”

“Family only, I’m afraid. Anyway, he’s so heavily sedated that he wouldn’t be able to talk to you.” Seeing how distraught the woman looked, Camille said, “It isn’t the best coffee in the world, but why don’t we—no, let’s not do that. Have you had breakfast?”

“No. They weren’t serving breakfast at the hotel when I left.”

“There’s a nice café not far from here. Let’s go have breakfast.”

At the café, Camille ordered coffee and Angela ordered tea. Camille smiled.

“What’s funny?” Angela asked.

“Tea makes me think of Richard. He’s on a quest to find the perfect cup of tea. Maman’s is good, but he’s always wondering if there’s something better somewhere. We had a case where part of the evidence was an extremely rare tea that was in the victim’s room. Richard had to ‘test’ it.” Camille made air quotes. “In fact he ‘tested’ it several times. If it had been poisoned, he’d be dead six times over. Oh, God, that was a tactless thing to say.”

“It’s all right. That does sound like Richard.”

“This is kind of weird. I have to caution you that anything you say about the case could be used in evidence, and if you later testify differently, it—”

“I will waive the caution statement. I’m a lawyer, I know what it says.”

“Thanks. I don’t mean this to be an interrogation, but until we find the intruder, technically, you’re all suspects.”

“I understand.”

“So how did you end up having a reunion on Saint Marie?”

“I arranged it. I wanted to have a reunion. I’ve stayed in touch with the others, mostly emails. Hadn’t seen each other for ages, and I thought, you know, we aren’t getting any younger. We should do something together.”

“But you didn’t tell Richard you were coming?”

“No.”

“What was he like at university?”

“Brilliant. Funny. Passionate about the oddest things. I don’t know if he still belongs, but at the time he belonged to the Richard III Society.”

“What’s that?”

“A sort of history fan group. Depending on how you look at him, Richard III was badly maligned or truly malignant. Do you know the Shakespeare play?”

“Is that the hunchback, my kingdom for a horse?”

“Yes. Ask Richard about it someday when you have time to listen to a lecture. He’ll go on and on about how the play was just Shakespeare sucking up to the Tudors, and that Richard III was not a hunchback and he did not kill the princes in the tower. I imagine Richard was over the moon when the body was found.”

“They didn’t know where he was buried? I mean, he had been a king. Don’t they all get nice burials?”

“Legend was he’d been hacked to bits and tossed into a river. But his body was found a few years ago, and they’re quite sure it’s him. Oddly enough, he wasn’t a hunchback. He had scoliosis. So Shakespeare was sort of right and sort of wrong. Richard knows much more about it. If you have an interest in history, just wind him up about it and he’ll talk for hours.”

Camille looked at Angela’s fond smile. Had she been in love with Richard back then? Was she still? 

“I’ll bet you did listen to him talk a lot back then, didn’t you?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. He loved to expound on his favorite subjects.”

“He still does. Although now his favorite subjects are all the things that are wrong with Saint Marie. The heat, the bugs, the sand, the lack of proper milk for his tea, the list goes on and on.”

“I don’t remember him complaining much at uni. There was a professor he used to rant about, but mostly he loved discussing our studies. Sasha studied literature, and they read many of the same books. They could talk for hours about books.”

“Did either of them read Stendahl? Le Rouge et le Noir?”

“Yes. Sasha did several courses in French lit and wrote her dissertation on that book. She was always trying to get Richard to learn French, get us all to go out for a meal at a French restaurant. She used to joke to Richard about running away to Paris and living like bohemians.”

“So were they involved romantically?”

“No, she was only joking. They were friends. They studied together, proofread each other’s papers. Well, we all studied together for one course or another. We were good friends, but they were closer than the rest of us. It was idyllic. You know, before you go out into the world and get a job. I put off reality a bit longer by going to law school, although I’d hardly call law school idyllic.”

“What did the others do?”

“Sasha married James. He worked in his family’s investment business. She started a software company, and now they’re quite wealthy. Roger didn’t graduate, but I suppose he’s done all right. He works in some public relations firm. I don’t know what he does exactly.”

“And Sasha had a sister?”

“Helen, a year behind us. She wanted to be part of the group, but she never was as close as the rest of us. She flirted like mad with James. I was a little surprised he didn’t marry her instead of Sasha. I guess you never know what goes on inside a person’s head.”

“Or heart?”

“Or heart.”

-o-o-o-o-

Camille dropped Angela off at her hotel, then drove to the station. As she drove, she thought about what she had learned of Richard’s time at university. He’d been passionate about his studies and books he’d read. Camille smiled when she remembered him reading _The Count of Monte Cristo._ He had claimed he’d read only the classics, which to him meant English lit. But he’d been at least a little interested in French lit at university. Or had he just been interested in Sasha? What had he said about her marriage? Something about it being a surprise. Camille wished she could ask Richard more about Sasha, but even if he were conscious, he’d probably avoid talking about it, especially if he had been emotionally involved.”

When Camille arrived at the station, she found Dwayne and Fidel at the work table, looking at crime-scene photos.

Dwayne looked up and said, “Mornin’, Camille. Did you get any sleep?”

“I look that bad, do I?” She managed a weak smile. “I slept some. I went to the hospital this morning. He’s still sedated, hooked up to all sorts of monitors. Funny, he looked different. I hadn’t realized how expressive his face is. I’m used to seeing him scowling over the heat or wide-eyed with excitement over some clue. Sleeping, his face is, I don’t know… softer? He looks younger somehow. Anyway, let’s assume the old adage no news is good news is true and that he’s going to get better. Now, what are you looking at?”

“Sorting through pictures. The blood trail is odd. Usually, it tapers off, you know?” said Fidel. “But there’s this part where there’s more blood. And then no more.”

“Okay, pull together pictures of the things that make no sense. The book, the blood trail, anything else that strikes you as odd. I’m going to read the witness statements and see if I can work out a timeline. Dwayne, could you make a copy of your sketch, please? Actually, make a few. It may help me to diagram who was where.”

While Camille was reading statements and scribbling on the sketch, Richard’s doctor called with an update. 

“Nothing new,” Camille told the officers. “He’s stable, still sedated. The doctor looked at the MRI and says the wound is deep, didn’t miss the heart by more than a centimeter. And it looks like the wound was caused by a long sharply pointed object, like a long nail or an ice pick.”

“Omigod, the ice!” Fidel cried. He dashed to his computer and scrolled through the pictures until he found the shots of the ice block. “Look!”

“It’s ice. But there’s no ice pick.”

“Exactly, Camille. They had been chopping at the ice, but we couldn’t find what they’d chopped with.”

“Okay, so where is the ice pick? If that was the weapon, it had to have come from the house which means the attacker was one of them. So where is the ice pick? Did one of them hide it somewhere?

“More likely they threw it somewhere.”

“I agree. So…”

Dwayne groaned, “I’ll fire up the metal detector.”

“Right. Let’s take the Commissioner up on his offer of help with that. Search the area below the veranda and search the house in case someone stashed it somewhere. And we don’t release the scene until we find that ice pick!”


	6. Pieces of Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took title of this chapter from a song written by Michel Legrand and Alan and Marilyn Bergman. Google it. The lyrics are so Richard!

While Dwayne was on a mission to find the ice pick, Camille and Fidel talked their way through the timeline again. 

“Aaaaaaah!” Camille shouted. “It should be telling us something! What are we missing?”

“I don’t know,” Fidel replied. 

“The book. The book is bothering me.”

“What was it?”

“ _Le Rouge et le Noir._ It’s a classic, I studied it in school. Sasha wrote her dissertation about it. So she would have a copy of her own, possibly in French. But this is a fairly recent printing. It doesn’t go back to their university days, so it might not even be hers. Anyway, all these years later, would she really take that to read on holiday? Most people look for something light for holiday reading. And if Richard wanted to read something, why would he choose a book in a language he can’t read?”

A delivery interrupted their discussion. 

“What is it?” asked Fidel.

“It’s for Richard, from his mother. He asked her to send some of his things from Cambridge.”

“Maybe there’s a clue in something.”

“It might be a clue for Richard,” said Camille as she opened the package. “I wonder if anything will look like a clue to us.”

“Photo albums,” Camille handed one to Fidel.

“Should we have gloves?”

“No, something this old isn’t going to have useful forensics.”

“Look at this!” Fidel held the album open. “The chief used to bleach his hair! And look at that grin.”

Camille looked at the photo of a laughing Richard with Sasha and Roger. How did Richard go from bleached hair, a Grateful Dead t-shirt, and—was that an earring?—to the buttoned-up serious detective? If he—no, _when_ he woke up, she’d have some fun with that picture. 

Fidel continued to look through the album while Camille emptied the box. Richard’s dissertation, Sasha’s dissertation, packets of letters, invitations to various events, programs from concerts. Chamber music and the Grateful Dead? Richard’s tastes apparently had been eclectic. And at the bottom of the box, Camille found a leather-bound journal. She opened it and recognized Richard’s handwriting. It was his diary. She wanted to read it, but felt it would be invading his privacy. 

She opened Sasha’s dissertation. It was inscribed, “To Richard, thanks for all your help. You’re the best! XOXO Sasha” Camille stared at the page. XOXO, hugs and kisses. Had Richard taken the inscription seriously? Apparently Sasha hadn’t meant it seriously. 

Camille set the dissertation aside and called Richard’s mother to update her on Richard’s condition and to say that the package had arrived.

_“He asked for photos and things from his last year at Cambridge. I’m not sure why. He used to grumble that I held onto too much stuff, but now he wants it.”_

“He thought something was off about one of the group. I guess he hoped the pictures would jog his memory. I don’t know how much it will help me. But maybe when he wakes up, he’ll see something important.”

_“He will wake up, won’t he, Camille?”_

“Yes, of course he will. He isn’t exactly in a coma, just heavily medicated. It’s probably just as well. If he were conscious, he’d be trying to get out of bed and solve the crime.”

_“There was a time work wasn’t all he had. I put his diary in the box. He told me to bin it and not to read it. I didn’t read it. But he didn’t say YOU couldn’t. So read it. There might be a clue. And even if there isn’t, it will help you to understand him. I think Sasha marrying someone else… I don’t know, I’m no psychologist. But he changed around then. It could have been her. It could have been leaving the cocoon of school and starting a very real-world career. He doesn’t say much in his emails, but he talks about you and the team. He sees you as friends, and he doesn’t make friends easily. It means so much to me to know that he’s got you. That he isn’t all alone.”_

“We’ll take care of him, Mrs. Poole.”

_“Tell him I love him.”_

“I will. I’ll keep you updated, and as soon as he’s able, he will call you.”

_“Thank you, Camille.”_

-o-o-o-o-

Camille told Fidel she was going out to check on Harry, and took the diary with her. She avoided reading it by checking the fridge for perishables that should be thrown away. Then she mashed up a mango and set it and some water on the veranda, hoping the lizard would show up. She looked around to see if there was anything from the house that Richard might want at the hospital, some personal item to make it feel more like home. But nothing particularly struck her as right.

So she took a beer from the fridge and sat on the veranda to read. The diary started with his arrival at Cambridge, so excited to be studying at such a famous institution. He’d met Roger and James first, and they’d become friends quickly. Then Angela became part of the group because she and Richard were taking the same medieval history course. Sasha became part of the group the next term. Other classmates drifted in and out of the group of friends, but the core five stayed together. 

Camille smiled when she read about Richard’s dates. Apparently, Sasha had decided he needed a girlfriend, and would set him up with her friends. Richard didn’t seem to consider these blind dates because they were usually part of a double date, or a casual “oh, look who I’ve run into” situation. To his way of thinking, a date was “blind” only if he totally was on his own with a stranger. He never wrote anything explicit, but Camille could tell that some relationships were better than others.

> S must have run through the best ones. Peggie was pleasant, Jen was jolly—oh Christ, am I doing alliteration? Hmm, Emily was—is there an E-word for sexy? Well, she was good while it lasted, anyway. But Cassie was boring. I need to get S to stop the setups. I could do better than Cassie by just picking a girl at random. Who was that girl who sat next to me at the Victorian morals lecture? She was kind of funny. If I see her again, perhaps I’ll ask her out. And now S has taken it on herself to help A, but I don’t think any of them have been a good fit, either. Poor A, always seems to be looking for something she can’t find.

Then Camille found the passage that explained the dyed hair.

> NEVER make a bet when you’re drunk! I don’t even remember what the bet was, but I lost. And now I’m blond! And I’m supposed to go home in a fortnight. Dad will go spare when he sees me. But S will kill me if I dye it back.  
> 

And the earring.

> R is envious of my bleached look. He says all sorts of girls are looking at me. I was afraid they were laughing, but at least one wasn’t. Gayle slipped her phone number into my pocket. Make that two—Suzy asked me out. SHE asked ME! Awesome! Yesterday, R decided he wanted to get an earring. I went along to be supportive. Then, what the hell! So now I have an earring, too. Dad will def hate it, but I love my new look. Hope Mum doesn’t faint.  
> 

Farther along in the diary, Camille found entries about problems with difficult courses, and how they’d helped each other through.

> …totally bloody unfair! The idiot should be struck off. When you read torrents of red running down a mountain, you’re going to think volcano. It’s the obvious conclusion—unless you’d read the book. I was lucky, I’d read it, and I remembered the rain and the red clay and the mudslides. But J hadn’t, so he wrote about volcanoes and was screwed. I think we should complain. It was a GEOLOGY exam, for Chrissakes, not a lit exam!  
> 

And Richard had written about funny things.

> S says we should all learn some French. She’s studied it for years, so has J. R and A, a little. Me, none. We tried speaking French the other night in a pub. I gave up and slipped into Mandarin, then A threw in some Latin—she and I actually held a conversation for a while. Then R tried to work in some German. People at the next table looked at us as if we had escaped from a mental institution. So much for “international night!”  
> 

And some sad things.

> S and stupid Paul broke up. S is very upset. J’s been great about being a shoulder for her to cry on. Tonight I took S out for a cheer-up drink. She’s such a special woman, she deserves someone better than P. He was a complete tosser. She spent all that time helping him get through 18th C French lit, and as soon as he passed the course, he dumped her. How can people use other people like that? I never liked him, but I didn’t think he’d stoop that low.

And some annoying things.

> Love my friend, love her sister, right? WRONG! S is my best mate, but her sister is a little bitch. Always trying to spend time with us, not very nice to R and me, but always trying to get cozy with J. Always whining about something going wrong. Nasty to poor A for no reason at all. A just takes H’s crap. I worry about A. How is she going to make it as a lawyer, if she’s so reticent? And can I go on to a career as a policeman if I’ve got a murder record? Because, I swear, someday I may throttle that little madam.

Each term began with notes full of excitement about the courses Richard was going to take. Camille knew he was interested in history. That night, during the storm, he’d said he might have been an academic. She smiled as she imagined him as a professor. He’d probably be an excellent lecturer. His exams would be tough, but fair. He’d be a good mentor to students, too. He’d mentored Fidel, and look how well that was going. But Richard’s father had wanted him to have a practical career. Camille smiled. _Thank you, Mr. Poole!_ If Richard hadn’t become a policeman, she’d never have met him. Never have had to put up with his complaints about the heat, or watched him fuss with tea, or carry that damn briefcase everywhere. She hadn’t wanted Richard here when he first arrived, and now she couldn’t imagine life without him.

Camille set the diary aside and indulged in a good cry. Something green flashed by, and she looked up. She talked to Harry for a while, explaining that Richard was sick, but that he’d be home soon. What was it about that animal? That face was far too knowing for a mere reptile! She turned her attention back to the diary.

Entries for his last year at Cambridge were full of thoughts about the future. They celebrated when Angela was accepted to law school. Laughed about James having no worries, as he was going to work for his father. Watched Roger weigh job offers from a variety of firms. And planned how they would celebrate graduation.

> S is on about France again. She says we should all go to Paris as a graduation celebration. She promised she’d take care of me and translate for me as my French is abominable. J says if I tried to speak French, I’d get us all deported. Last night, we all went to a French restaurant to celebrate S finishing her dissertation on _The Red and the Black._ It drives her crazy when I use the English name. She gets all fiery and scolds me in French. She’s amazing and so beautiful. I think we all had too much wine. She said we should run off to Paris and live like bohemians. It would be nice if we could have a trip to Paris, just the two of us. I wouldn’t even mind that it’s in France! I can imagine proposing on top of the Eiffel Tower. Oh, God, no—that’s such a cliché. Is that what being in love does to you? Scary!

Then the entries turned sad.

> I hate myself. I had to do it, and I KNOW it was the right thing to do. But I feel like crap. I wish I’d never found out. But once I knew, I had to tell someone. I know it’s R’s fault for cheating. But he’s my friend, and I turned him in. I HATE that I did it. But I’d hate myself even more if I didn’t. I’ve been hiding in the stacks all day. I don’t want to see anyone. I know they’ll hate me for it. But it’s the right thing to do. Even if it hurts.  
> 

Ah, Camille thought. So that’s why Roger didn’t graduate. That could be a motive for murder.

> A understands. J is pissed at me. S understands—I hope—but I think she’s disappointed in me. A has been really supportive. Maybe that’s the future lawyer in her, appreciating the importance of truth and honesty. And is it the future cop in me? Maybe that is what I’m meant to be.  
> 

And later.

> I think I’ve finally made S understand why I had to turn R in. It’s the first split from the group. I suppose after graduation, we’d all be going different ways anyhow. But this isn’t how it was meant to happen. At least S isn’t looking disappointed anymore. That hurt. Does she know how much she means to me? Is it weird to fall in love with your best friend?  
> 

And then Camille found the entry about the bombshell.

> S and J are engaged. Engaged!!!! How did I not see this coming??? Well, Paris is definitely off, isn’t it! I never want to hear a word of French again! A knows I’m upset. She’s trying to cheer me up, but how can I be cheerful when the woman I want is walking around with another man’s ring on her finger? A always means well, but she’s so bloody chipper! She hasn’t had a boyfriend in ages, so why is S’s engagement making her happy? Shouldn’t she be envious? Will I EVER understand women?!?!?!?  
> 

Camille read a few more broken-hearted entries, then closed the diary. So, motive? Roger certainly had one. James didn’t seem to. Even if he knew Richard had been in love with Sasha, she’d chosen James. Angela was happy about Sasha and James. Was that because she thought it left Richard available for her? But that hadn’t happened. Was that Angela’s reason for planning the reunion on Saint Marie? One more chance with Richard but he wasn’t interested in her? A spurned Angela would have a motive for killing Richard. But Camille didn’t believe that she could do it. Camille was proud of her ability to “read” women, something Richard was abysmal at. Unless Angela was an incredible actress, she cared for Richard, and wouldn’t hurt him.

Camille hugged the diary and said, “Oh, Richard, what am I missing here?”


	7. Means and Opportunity

When Camille arrived at the villa, the Government House officers were just leaving. She thanked them for their help and walked inside.

“Fidel?”

“Out here,” he replied from the veranda.

“Where is it?”

“It’s in the house on the bar. We found it caught in some vines, a few feet off the ground. Judging from where it landed, it probably was thrown from about here,” Fidel indicated where he was standing.

“Which is near where Mrs. Moore fell.” Camille nodded and turned to walk into the house. Several bagged objects rested on the bar.

“Camille, you don’t need to look at it,” said Dwayne.

Camille picked up the bagged knife. It was good that it hadn’t landed in the dirt. It would be easy to get DNA from the blood and prove it was Richard’s. She swore softly to herself when she started to tear up again. 

“You okay?” Dwayne asked for what seemed like the millionth time. He wished Camille didn’t have to investigate this crime.

“Yes, I’m all right. Why did you bag these other things?”

“They turned up in a drawer when we searched the house in case the ice pick was hidden in here. They’ve got similar handles. They look like they’re part of a bar set. See? There’s a corkscrew and a bottle opener, a little fork for getting olives out of the bottle.”

“So that helps,” she said. “If the ice pick came from the house, it had to have been one of them. A random intruder wouldn’t dash into the house, grab an ice pick, and then dash out to the veranda to attack someone. So which one of them did it?”

“Does it strike you as odd that their statements are all so similar?” asked Fidel.

“It’s funny. Richard and I were talking about that just the other day. How multiple witnesses to the same crime can have such different descriptions of the events and the people. But Mr. and Mrs. Moore had the exact same description of the intruder, right down to the scruffy trainers.”

“So what do we do next?”

“Let’s see if someone is lying. As far as we know, these three chairs haven’t been moved, right? So let’s sit. You two sit there,” Camille pointed. “And I’ll sit where Mr. Moore was.”

“You’re the only one facing the veranda,” said Fidel.

“But it’s no good,” Camille sighed. “I can’t see the whole sunlounger from here. Whether I lean forward, as if I’m talking to you or lean back as if I’m relaxing, only parts of it are in my line of sight. Someone running across the veranda might catch my eye, but if the curtains were blowing, I might not have noticed. And by all accounts, they were laughing about the game, so they were probably focused on each other, not the veranda.”

“It’s Mrs. Moore,” said Dwayne. “It has to be. I don’t know how we can prove it. She’s the one who went out onto the veranda. She fell, screamed, her husband ran out, supposedly saw the intruder. But the others, who were right behind him, did not see any intruder.”

“He’s backing up his wife’s story,” Fidel nodded in agreement with Dwayne’s summary. “That’s why their descriptions of the intruder are identical.”

They walked out onto the veranda and Camille looked at her scribbled sketch and pointed, “Richard’s here, in the sun lounger. Mrs. Moore is there, lying on the veranda. Mr. Moore ran to his wife. Miss Birkett ran to Richard, Mr. Sadler went to get a towel. With Miss Birkett focused on Richard and Mr. Sadler in the house, there was time for the Moores to have a quick conference to get their stories straight.”

“And for Mr. Moore to toss the ice pick over the side,” Dwayne concluded the timeline.

“That would explain the blood trail,” said Fidel. “She stabbed the Chief, he pushed her off, she stumbled, maybe dropped the ice pick, maybe held it. Either way, there was time for extra blood to drip off. And the trail stops because it was thrown, not carried.”

“And the crisps were her alibi!” Camille exclaimed. “That’s why the bowl was almost empty. She said she took him a bowl of crisps. The others saw her walk out carrying the bowl, but they didn’t see what was in it. She didn’t plan on Richard fighting back. She thought there would be a time lag between the stabbing and the discovery. So when somebody found the body, the bowl would be almost empty, creating the illusion of time between when she gave him the crisps and when he was stabbed. Damn, she’s smart.”

“So we’ve got her!” said Fidel.

“Oh, it’s her. But I don’t think this is enough evidence to hold up in court. We have no motive. She’ll rely on that plus her fictional intruder for reasonable doubt. Richard knew something about her. I don’t know what it is. Step up the research on her. If she’s ruthless enough to kill someone who was such a close friend after all these years, there must be something bad in her background. Look into the sale of the company. Maybe there’s something dirty there. Or maybe he found out something about her sister Helen. Something Mrs. Moore would kill to keep hidden.”

-o-o-o-o-

When they returned to the station, Fidel checked for messages from Guadeloupe Forensics.

“Hey! Here’s a possible good lead. Forensics says one of the swabs from the Chief’s hand looks like makeup. They’re analyzing it, and they’ll let us know if they find a match. They didn’t find much under the Chief’s fingernails, so it’s unlikely that he scratched anyone. The nurse noted that Mrs. Moore’s hands were very clean.”

“She probably scrubbed them when nobody was looking,” said Dwayne. “Too bad. A little blood on her hands would have been useful. Let’s hope the makeup tells us something.” 

“As long as she is telling the intruder story, she could say blood was transferred to her from the intruder when she pulled on him,” said Camille. “The makeup sounds promising. A rich woman might use something expensive that wouldn’t be very common.”

“Or worn by a black man,” said Dwayne, smiling.

“Right,” Fidel nodded. “Because nothing in their perfectly matching statements mentioned the intruder wearing makeup.”

“I think I should talk to the two women again,” said Camille. She picked up her purse and the keys to the Defender. “In the meantime, Fidel, please check the ice pick for prints. And be careful not to—”

“Get anything on the blade,” Fidel completed the sentence. “I know.”

“I know you do, sorry.”

“It’s okay, Camille. The Chief would probably remind me. Always good to be careful.”

-o-o-o-o-

Camille watched Sasha carefully, looking for any sign of guilt. Richard would say it was a silly attempt at using intuition, but damn it, she _could_ read women. Especially the guilty ones.

“How is he?” had been Angela’s first question when Camille appeared at the door.

“Still heavily sedated, I’m afraid. But still hanging in there, so let’s be hopeful about that.”

“So he’s still in intensive care?” Sasha asked. “And we can’t visit? That seems unfair. He hasn’t any family here, so why won’t they let us in?”

Camille looked at the two women. Did Sasha really look nervous, or was that Camille’s imagination? She wanted to ask Sasha what she would do if they did let her near Richard. Instead she smiled and said, “You know what Richard is like. He’d say rules are rules and they exist for a reason. Believe me, I’ve heard that speech plenty of times.”

“So what are you here for now?” If she wasn’t going to get any helpful information, Sasha wasn’t interested in giving out any information.

“I have some questions about your makeup.”

“Makeup?” asked Sasha. “What does my makeup have to do with anything?”

“One of the trace swabs we got from the crime scene looks as if it might be makeup or some kind of cosmetic. Moisturizer, bronzer, sunscreen, maybe. We need to check what you use.” 

“I don’t see that this is relevant,” said Sasha.

“Think of it as exclusionary, like taking your fingerprints. It could be nothing, but Richard will be disappointed in me when he wakes up and finds I’ve skipped anything.” Camille smiled and tried to make it sound like a tiny detail only someone as picky as Richard would bother with. She noticed that Sasha started to reach up to touch her cheek, as if she was trying to remember if Richard had touched her face. Angela looked curious, but not at all worried.

“So, if you would please bring out your makeup bags, that would be most helpful.”

“Are you going to take our makeup? I didn’t bring any extra. And it’s very expensive,” said Sasha.

Angela smiled as she rose from her chair. “It will take less than a minute to inventory mine. And you can keep whatever you like. It’s only Boots Number 7.”

-o-o-o-o-

Camille added the list of cosmetics to the file and described the scene to the officers.

“Miss Birkett had a handful of products. She’s obviously low-maintenance. Lip balm instead of lipstick. A sunscreen moisturizer instead of tinted base plus concealer plus bronzer plus top powder plus…” Camille broke off when she saw the two men glaze over. “Okay, to put it simply, Miss Birkett uses a small assortment of inexpensive products. Mrs. Moore uses very expensive cosmetics, and could probably fill a suitcase with her arsenal. Nothing in common, so if we do get a match, neither woman could say it was from the other.”

“You did better with the makeup than I did with the prints,” said Fidel. “They all must have used the ice pick at some point. I found partials of everyone and lots of smudges. It’s impossible to say who handled it last.”

“All right. Send it to Guadeloupe for DNA. I hate all this waiting. Now I understand how Richard felt—FEELS—about waiting for results.


	8. Motive

The next morning, since they were waiting for results, Camille decided to spend the morning at the hospital. She managed to get a few minutes with Richard’s doctor, who was pleased with how well the inspector was healing. They were beginning to back off on the sedation.

“So when will he wake up?”

“He won’t wake up abruptly as if the alarm went off. He’ll drift in and out, and be drowsy for quite a while. He will still have considerable pain, so we’ll have to continue some level of medication. His tolerance for pain will determine that.”

“I see. And how much longer do you think he will be here?”

“We need to monitor him as he regains consciousness, so it depends on his progress. With luck, he’ll be able to go home in a few days, probably no more than a week. The only problem I see with letting him go home is getting him to rest. Going home from hospital does not mean going back to work.”

“You will have to lecture him sternly. He’s pretty stubborn.”

The doctor smiled, “So am I.”

As Camille entered Richard’s room, she heard Dwayne talking to Richard about cricket, describing a match he’d been to recently.

“You should come with me next time, Chief. I tell you, their bowler is like a machine, he’s that good.”

“Dwayne?” she said.

“Mornin’, Camille. The Chief and I have been talking about cricket. He’s quite keen, you know.”

“How long have you been here?”

“About an hour. I like to stop in on my way to the station.” Dwayne stood and offered Camille the bedside chair. “Why don’t you give him a French lesson? That will make him angry enough to get out of that bed and walk out of here.”

“The point is to not upset him, Dwayne,” said Camille as she sat down. “I think I’ll stick to English. I’ll stay for a few hours, I think. Call me if we hear from Guadeloupe.”

“Will do. So long, Chief. See you soon,” Dwayne saluted his boss and left.”

Camille sat with Richard until the nurses sent her away while they changed the sheets and the physios worked on him. She had a cup of tea because the hospital coffee was undrinkable. She smiled when she thought that Richard would probably declare the hospital tea undrinkable. She was in the little ICU waiting room when a nurse told her she could go back into Richard’s room.

“He’s been massaged and bathed. He was murmuring a bit, so I think he’s coming back to us. Nothing coherent, mind you. Not even words. Just attempts at words. So do talk to him. I know you and your colleagues have been doing that, so keep it up.”

“Thanks, I will.”

“Hi, Richard, I’m back. The phyisos say they’re keeping you limber so you can zouk when you wake up. And you must feel refreshed after your bath. Is the bed comfortable? It’s going to rain later, I think. I checked on your house. Everything is closed up, so you don’t have to worry about the rain. The plants on my patio will be pleased to get watered. You should think about getting some plants. You know, replace the one you drowned in soup.”

Richard shook his head and mumbled what Camille thought might be “ugh, soup.”

“Now, Richard, my mother makes good soup. I thought we agreed not to discuss chicken soup again. I know, I know, I brought it up. Sorry. Let’s see, we should talk about something—”

“You.”

Camille’s eyes widened. “Yes, it’s me. I’m here.”

“C’mee?”

“Oh, good, you recognize me. You’re getting better, Richard. The doctors are happy with your progress.”

“Where?”

“You’re in hospital.”

“No.”

“Yes, you are. You were stabbed, do you remember that? Who stabbed you, Richard?”

“You.”

“No!” Camille was shocked.

“You. Nah Sash, you.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Richard. I’m not Sasha, is that what you’re saying?

“Nah Sasha.”

“No, I’m not Sasha. I’m Camille.”

“C’mee,” he sighed, and went back to sleep. 

Camille stared at Richard. How could he think she had been the one to stab him? And why did he say “Not Sasha, you” when she hadn’t told him Sasha was the prime suspect? Oh, God, was this evidence of some sort of brain damage? She went to the nurse’s station and asked if Richard’s doctor was still in the hospital.

“Yes. Do you want me to page him?”

“Please, if you would. It isn’t an emergency, but I’m concerned that Richard didn’t understand me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I asked him who stabbed him and he said ‘you.’ But he must know I didn’t do it. Why would he accuse me?”

“Maybe he was just recognizing that you were there and not responding to the question at all. Like asking if the dry cleaner found your car.”

“What does that mean?”

“Sorry,” the nurse smiled. “A little nursing humor. It’s a line from a movie. A guy is on heavy pain meds, and when someone comes to see him, he asks if the dry cleaner found her car. It’s an example of someone being a bit disconnected due to the meds. The inspector isn’t fully conscious, remember. But it sounds as if he recognized you, which is a good sign.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Families see this all the time. He may ramble for a while. It’s normal. Do you still want me to page the doctor?”

“No. When you see him, just ask him to call me when he has a moment.”

Camille sat with Richard for a while longer. She held his hand and spoke to him softly.

“Harry is a bit lonely. He’ll be glad when you can go home. Maman says the tea set is getting dusty because nobody has asked for tea in days. We’re working hard on your case. Dwayne and Fidel are putting in long hours. Dwayne used the metal detector to search around the villa, Fidel has been studying prints. You’d be proud of how hard we’re working. We’re a good team, the three of us. But we’re so much better when we’re four. So come back to us Richard. We need you. Not just the team. Saint Marie needs you. And I—”

“C’mille?” Richard said drowsily. “Zat you?”

“Yes, Richard. I’m here.” 

“Good. Not Sasha.”

Camille wished she understood why he kept saying that. “No, I’m not Sasha.”

“Not Sasha. Helen. Not Sasha.”

Camille started to tell him her name again, but Richard had already gone back to sleep. 

-o-o-o-o-

“So you’re saying he’s mental from the drugs?” Dwayne asked after Camille updated the officers on Richard’s condition.

“Not exactly mental, but not entirely coherent, either. He seemed to recognize me, but when I asked him who stabbed him, he said it was me! Then he kept saying ‘Not Sasha, you.’ I didn’t mention Sasha. He brought up her name.”

“Sounds like his mind was wandering,” said Fidel.

“Yes. Then later, he said, ‘Not Sasha, Helen.’ I have no idea why Helen came into his mind. He hasn’t seen her since university. The nurses did say not to expect him to make sense all the time. I just wish he could tell me who did it. We can’t hold those four people much longer.”

“Yeah, Mr. Moore called to ask when they can get their passports back so they can leave.”

“Arrgh! I’ve been dreading that. Fidel, nudge Guadeloupe on the forensics, will you? I’ll call the prosecutor’s office to see how long we can hold material witnesses.”

Fidel reached for his phone and knocked a stack of files onto the floor. He started to get up, but Camille said she’d get them.

“What’s this arrest record?” she asked.

“Oh, that came in this morning,” said Dwayne. “Mrs. Moore’s sister, Helen Reed, had an arrest record. Shoplifting. Not a secret worth killing over. I mean, would that get the Moore’s kicked out of their fancy clubs?”

“And that’s all, just the one arrest?”

“That’s all we’ve got so far.”

“No point in opening a file for Helen Reed. I’ll just slip this in with Mrs.—what?” Camille stared at two sheets of paper. “Oh. My. God.”

“What?” asked Dwayne and Fidel.

“Let’s head over to the hotel. We’ve got arrests to make! I need their passports, the exclusion prints, the arrest report, and… damn, we don’t have the ice pick, do we?”

“No, it’s in Guadeloupe.”

“Never mind, I was going to wave it around, you know, the way Richard goes over clues before he arrests a killer. Ah well, let’s go!”

-o-o-o-o-

The four university friends sat on a quiet part of the hotel’s veranda. Angela and Roger looked tired. Sasha looked nervous. James looked angry.

“What now?” Sasha asked. “We want to go home. We’ve answered all your damn questions.”

“Not quite all, I’m afraid,” said Camille, trying to channel Richard’s style. 

“Oh, all right, then,” James huffed. “What else do you want to pry into?”

“I’ve read Richard’s diary, so I know quite a lot about all of you. I could find motives for three of you. Well, two of the motives were weak. Miss Birkett, you came here to reconnect with Richard, not kill him. Mr. Sadler, your issues with Richard—”

“Were a long time ago!” he cut in.

“Yes, they were,” Camille nodded. “Mr. Moore, you were jealous of Richard’s affection for your wife. You argued about it at lunch that first day. It’s a motive, but since you weren’t going to be here for long, and she wasn’t paying any attention to him, it’s hardly something to kill over.”

“That leaves you, Mrs. Moore. I couldn’t find anything in his diary that could provide a motive for you to attack Richard.”

“I should hope not! We were friends, I told you that!”

“That’s true. Your motive came later. Tell me, whose idea was it?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Whose idea was it to change identities?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do. Helen Reed, I am arresting you for attempted murder and conspiracy to commit murder,” said Camille, gesturing to Fidel to handcuff the woman.

“This is outrageous!” James bellowed. “How dare you! It’s bad enough we have to be pestered by you because you can’t find the person who attacked our friend. And now you bring up the name of my wife’s sister? My wife’s DEAD sister? Have you no decency?”

“More than you have,” Camille said coolly. “We have Helen’s fingerprints from her shoplifting arrest. They match the exclusion prints we took of the woman who claims to be Sasha. I suspect the two of you were having an affair, and took advantage of the accident to make your relationship permanent and avoid paying inheritance taxes. A little surgery and Helen becomes Sasha. The new Sasha sells her company, and you’ve got money to live on for the rest of your lives. Please don’t try to tell me you didn’t know that your wife wasn’t your wife. James Moore, I am arresting you for conspiracy to commit murder.” 

Dwayne handcuffed the spluttering man.

Poor Angela looked as if she was about to faint. Camille walked over to her and handed her a glass of water.

“I am so sorry you had to go through all of this. You, too, Mr. Sadler. Here are your passports. I’m releasing the crime scene. You may go back to the villa.”

“I don’t ever want to go back there!” Angela cried.

“Just long enough to pack,” said Roger. “And then I’m going back to England on the first flight I can get.”

Angela nodded, “Good idea.”

As she was being led out of the villa, Helen turned and said, “Angela, we’re going to need a lawyer, you can’t leave us now!”

Camille’s jaw dropped. The woman was beyond audacious. 

Angela raised her chin, gave Helen a look that could etch glass and said, “Sorry, Helen. I’m on holiday. I’m not taking any new cases.”


	9. Old Loves and New Loves

The next morning, Angela Birkett accompanied the team to visit Richard. Angela wanted to say goodbye. Roger had found seats on the noon flight, so she had only a few minutes for the visit. 

“I am so sorry, Richard. If I hadn’t brought Helen to the island, none of this would have happened.”

“You didn’t know she wasn’t Sasha.”

“But you did.”

“Yes. And I couldn’t let it go, could I? I had to go poking around. I’m sorry for ruining your reunion. I really did make a mess of things.”

“No you didn’t. You always do what’s right, Richard. That’s who you are and why you’re special.” She squeezed his hand, and he looked embarrassed. No, she thought, you never did love me. “Well, I have to go. Good bye, Richard.”

“Goodbye, Angela.”

Outside Richard’s room, Angela leaned against a wall and sighed. It was time to leave and time to put old dreams aside.

“Are you all right?” Camille followed her out.

“Yes. Just putting memories back in their place.”

“You were in love with him, weren’t you?”

“Yes. To the point of making an idiot of myself more than once. Dear Richard, he was the only one who never noticed.”

“Yes, he can be pretty dense about noticing emotions.” Camille smiled.

“Take care of him, Camille?”

“I will.” Camille drew the other woman into a hug and said, “Safe home, Angela.”

When Camille returned to the room, Richard was looking at a video on Dwayne’s mobile.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“I recorded the arrest. I knew the chief would want to see you in action.”

“Indeed!” said Richard. “Well done, Camille! You’ve made me feel quite unnecessary.”

“No, don’t say that! You’d have figured it out days sooner than we did.”

“But I had the advantage of having known both women, and as much as I hate to say this, I had a feeling something wasn’t right. Still, you solved the case. I look forward to reading the whole file while I convalesce. I should be out of ICU tomorrow, and then home in a few days.”

“That’s good news, sir,” said Fidel. “We should be going. We’re over the guest limit. The nurses have been kind about that.”

“It’s because they’re afraid of Camille,” Dwayne winked and followed Fidel out of the room.

“Are they?” Richard asked.

Camille shrugged, “I may have come on a little strong about access when you first got here.”

He smiled. “Thank you.”

“For what? Intimidating the nurses?”

“For solving what was almost my murder.”

“I’m sorry it was an old friend. But why did you keep accusing me?”

“I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did. You kept saying ‘it’s you’ and ‘not Sasha, you.’ And later ‘not Sasha, Helen’ which turned out to be the truth. But why did you say it was me? I would never hurt you, you have to know that.”

“I do know that. But when I began to wake, I was fuzzy. I saw you and I thought we were both in my dream. The night before I was attacked, I had a dream about the old Cambridge days. It was a winter formal. I danced with Sasha, then Helen, and then someone I didn’t recognize. But it was like something out of a movie. A perfect dance with a perfect partner, but I couldn’t see her face.”

“It’s odd you would dream about dancing when you don’t like to dance.” 

“I used to, back at Cambridge. It was a throwback to another time, men in dinner suits, women in gowns, live music, not some crappy recorded stuff that makes up in volume for what it lacks in quality.” Camille smiled. He’d said something very like that in his diary. 

“I had the dream again while I was unconscious. I understand the first part of the dream now. I was recognizing that Sasha wasn’t Sasha, that it was really Helen at the reunion. But in the dream, when I was looking for Sasha, I didn’t see her, and then I danced with a different woman. You know how dreams scramble contexts? After a while, the dream shifted. It was still the winter formal, but it was being held at La Kaz.”

Camille smiled.

“I know,” Richard smiled, too. “Dinner suits and velvet gowns at a Caribbean bar. I was dancing with you. You were the woman I hadn’t recognized at first. I think at one point, I even saw Dwayne waltz by with your mother. I suppose it started with my recognition that something was off about Sasha. And there was that juxtaposition of seeing Cambridge people on Saint Marie. Helen, Sasha. Poor Sasha. Imagine not being buried under your real name! She deserved better.”

“You were in love with her.” Camille didn’t phrase it as a question. She knew from his diary that it was true. But it was something she would have deduced even if she hadn’t read what he had written.

“Yeah. She was my best friend. And somewhere along the way, I fell in love with her. I don’t know how or when. I’m not sure I realized it until she said she was marrying James. So obviously, she didn’t feel the same way I did.”

“I’m sorry, Richard,” Camille reached out and squeezed his hand.

“Yeah, well. It was a long time ago. Sad that I haven’t become any better at reading women. We were such good friends. How does a friendship change into love? How did I not know she didn’t feel the same way? How did she not know how I felt?”

“She didn’t know because you didn’t tell her?”

Richard shrugged, “It wouldn’t have changed anything, except to make it all horribly awkward. But that’s the thing, you know? You’re friends, and the friendship gets closer. Then you’re best friends. What do you do if it becomes more? I feel like history is repeating itself. I was so wrong back then. What if I’m wrong now? I can’t go through life falling in love with a best friend, but I…”

His voice trailed off and they sat silently. Richard looked down as he rubbed his thumb across the knuckles of Camille’s hand. Finally he looked up and met her eyes. 

“But I am.”

Camille smiled. How could he not know how she felt? She squeezed his hand again and said, “So am I.”

“Really? I was so afraid you wouldn’t. I mean, I annoy the hell out of you, I manage to insult your mother at every turn, even when I don’t mean to. I complain too much, and I—”

“Shh,” Camille placed her fingers on his lips. “I love how you annoy me, and Maman and I think your talent for insulting her is cute. She prayed for you. Lots of people did. Father deVere thought the church might burn down from all the candles people were lighting for you.”

“For me? Gosh.”

“Lots of people care about you, Richard. But nobody will ever love you as much as I do.”

“I love you, Camille. I’m sorry, this isn’t a very romantic setting for telling you that. I… damn, I want to kiss you but I’m all wires and tubes. And it would probably raise my heart rate and then a nurse would come roaring in here with a crash cart and six units of blood.”

“That’s another thing. Lots of people showed up to donate blood for you. Angela was the only one of the four that did. Poor Angela. She’s in love with you, you know.”

“No she isn’t.”

“Yes she is, or at least she was. You really can’t read women very well if you couldn’t see that. She was eager to give blood, and she’s O positive, like you. I could only donate for the blood bank as a credit for you. 

“You gave blood for me?”

“I donated, but they couldn’t give you my blood because I’m not your type.”

Richard smiled and said, “I’m not so sure about that. Remember when I said that I’d never worked out what my type of woman is?”

Camille nodded.

“I know now. My type is you.”


End file.
